<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>I Want To Be With You by Novanii</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28198527">I Want To Be With You</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novanii/pseuds/Novanii'>Novanii</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Runner [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>All Elite Wrestling, Professional Wrestling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, My partner and I use different writing tenses to keep our readers on their toes, Set After Full Gear 2020, Suicidal Thoughts, and there was only one bed, nightmares/ night terrors, rp thread</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:08:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,759</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28198527</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novanii/pseuds/Novanii</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty-four minutes from midnight, Kenny Omega arrives at Adam's door.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kenny Omega/Adam Page</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Runner [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2055381</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I Want To Be With You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Copied from an RP Thread completed with my writing partner.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>K. </strong>
</p><p>In the parking lot, in the heat— <em>sweltering</em>, sweat at his hairline— of early November in Jacksonville, Florida, he stands by his vehicle, hand grasping at the door handle. He’s not yet accustomed to the Florida heat. In Winnipeg, the temperature is already <em>glacial</em>, descending further and further into the negatives with each passing day. In <em> Katsushika</em>, the temperature, too, has lowered significantly, comfortably cool in the downtown streets of Tokyo Metropolis. He’d loved his hometown. Twenty-five years in Winnipeg, Canada, and not once had he been resentful. He’d loved his hometown. But Katsushika had been <em> home </em> to him.</p><p>He wishes he hadn’t left.</p><p>He had betrayed the man he loved, and God had forsaken him, exiled him from Heaven, and <em> seized </em> one of the wings from his shoulder blades. The hemorrhaging will not cease. <em> He’d </em> stitched the wound— gold weaved in, and gold weaved out— but the damage, the <em>desecration</em>, was irreparable; the gold had become tarnished, blackened by the sin he’d repent, <em> again and again</em>, for. But God did not accept his repentance. How <em> could </em> God accept his repentance. He’s lied, and lied, and <em>lied</em>, to himself, to those he claims to <em>love</em>. How <em> could </em> God accept his repentance.</p><p>Is he truly repentant?</p><p>He should be certain of his repentance.</p><p>He should be.</p><p><em> He’d </em> stitched the wound, but he’d scratched, and scratched, and scratched at the sutures. He’d scratched, and scratched, and <em>scratched</em>, and <em> Matt </em> and <em> Nick </em> had allowed him to. Adam hadn’t noticed, intoxicated into <em> oblivion </em> , night after night, again, and again, and <em>again</em>. Perhaps, he had noticed. Perhaps, he had crawled into the bottle and drowned his agony —his <em>grief</em>, his <em>fears</em>— with alcohol, never to return. <em> Adam </em> had stitched the wound, but Kenny had scratched, and scratched, and <em> scratched </em> at the sutures ‘til he’d ripped the threads and begun hemorrhaging, and it, now, may never cease.</p><p>Maybe, if he hadn’t been so passive. Maybe, if he had trusted him. Maybe, if he wasn’t so afraid. Maybe, if he weren’t himself. Maybe, if he weren’t Kenny Omega, irreparably <em> destroyed </em>by his own hand.</p><p>ㅤ ㅤ   多分、彼が彼をもっと愛していたなら。</p><p>Maybe, maybe, <em> maybe</em>.</p><p>He tastes blood in his mouth.</p><p>He stands at the door of a hotel room, now, looking at the<em> two zero eight</em>, metallic, affixed to the adjacent wall. <em>Two zero eight</em>. The housing number of his childhood home. <em>Two zero eight</em>. The room number of the man he loves. <em>Two zero eight</em>. He thinks of his mother, how he’d forgotten to call her on her birthday two weeks ago and only remembered when he’d called her and his father to tell them that he’d become the number one contender. (So shallow, it’d left a bad taste in his mouth, but he cannot deny the sense of <em>pride</em> that the praise evoked within him.)   He misses his mother, how she fusses for his health and always —<em>always</em>— messages him, checking in, after his matches. <em>Two zero eight</em>. He misses his father, how he still has and holds dearly the<em> Saturday Night’s Main Event</em> tapes that he’d taped for Kenny decades ago. <em>Two zero eight</em>. He misses his childhood home, the <em>too cold </em>temperatures, and the corner store with the <em>Street Fighter</em> arcade cabinet that he’d paid hundreds of dollars to throughout his childhood and adolescence years.</p><p>He wishes he hadn’t left.</p><p>He wouldn’t have hurt him, then.</p><p>Ibushi.</p><p>Adam, Adam, <em> Adam </em>—</p><p><em> And there Adam stands</em>. A deer in the headlights, Kenny looks at him, at the blue, blue, <em> blue </em> of his eyes. "I’m—" <em>I’m sorry. I’m proud of you</em>. <em> I’m in love with you</em>. He takes a breath, but his heart, wild against his <em> still aching </em> chest, is unrelenting. He could say it. He’d rehearsed it hundreds, if not <em> thousands </em> of times: confessions written in the notes app of his cell phone or hurriedly scratched onto sheets of notebook paper, confessions spoken aloud to the mirror where he blushed and stammered ridiculously. At midnight, one o’clock in the morning, two o’clock, three o’clock, <em> four </em> o'clock in the morning — while the world slept, Kenny Omega’s heart, loud and wild, <em> demanded </em>.</p><p>He could say it.</p><p>He could.</p><p>His hands shake and sweat, and his knees are weak, and all he’s able to do is hope that Adam doesn’t notice as he wipes his palms against the thighs of his jeans. He breathes in, and he breathes out, and he knows that Adam will notice how his breathing is unsteady, <em> shaking</em>. In the air-conditioned hotel, but cold sweat is, still, at his hairline, but his face, <em> still</em>, is flushed red and hot to the touch. He looks sick, and he doesn’t know whether he’s <em> glad </em> that Adam will likely think that he is, or if he’s <em> angry </em> that Adam is so <em>oblivious.</em> "I think we should — I think we should just…  <em> talk </em>about stuff, you know?"</p><p> </p><p><b>A</b>.</p><p>Pounding in his dreams, thumping-up old steps, banging through the front screen door, crashing into his living room. A cacophony, a din, a whole mess on the rug, unavoidable and chaotic. Like a dog running all over the couch, uncontrollable and wild. Rousing him from peaceful rest and slumber like an unwelcome alarm. Cheek wedged against the pillow, dribble at the edge of his mouth, Adam’s eyes opened. He peered into the impenetrable darkness of his hotel room. The air conditioning churned, cars howled on the highway outside. An oppressive heat soaked Adam’s covers and skin with sweat. He rolled over in bed, the sheets intertwining with his calves as he flipped onto his back. </p><p>Someone was at the door. They were quiet now but like lightning, static in the air on a dry, Summer night in Arins Creek, the vibrations lingered. His eyes darted to the clock: 11:36 in bright red script. Adam groaned and rubbed his hand down his face. For once in his life, he goes to bed on time and this is what he gets in return. Karma was bogus. He turned on the bedside lamp and slid off the edge of the mattress. Adam padded across the room, bare toes sinking into the plush carpet floor. As he passed the mirror opposite the closet he took a half-second to regard his appearance.</p><p>Snags and knots tangled his hair into a bird’s nest on the left side of his head. Blonde curls in complete disarray around his squinty, red face. To survive the Florida heat and humidity he slept shirtless. Only in a pair of pajama pants, his mother bought him for Christmas a couple of years ago. The bottoms were made of light, sky blue cotton and printed with bucking bronco cowboys. Mom had a good sense of humor, loved that lady, and he’d worn the pants so much they’d faded a bit. They reminded him of home when he was on the road. Adam looked like he’d been dragged out of Hell. Which was fine by him. Whoever was knocking on his door deserved to see Hangman Adam Page twenty-four minutes to midnight. He spared a brief run of his fingers through his hair and then reached for the door. Adam yawned, hall light flooding into the dim hotel room and over the contours of his features. The hinges creaked. </p><p>Adam blinked, eyes narrowing, vision a little blurred with sleep and his addled brain. Then the static broke and lightning struck, illuminating the black, clouded night. His lips parted as he took in Kenny standing in front of him, like an apparition out of his dreams. Adam swallowed, hard, hand tightening around the door handle like he could draw strength from its solidness. Kenny, dark curls framing his face, in an ugly shirt, and his loose jeans. He hadn’t seen him since <em>Full Gear</em> when Adam ate a couple of knees to the face and forgot to hook the leg. Left there in the ring Adam couldn’t muster the courage for a text or a phone call. Make sure he was okay or find some peace after their fight, or congratulate him. He’d never expect Kenny to wander to his doorstep like this. To demand they talk and clear the air. Wordless, breathless –Kenny <em> stole </em>his air– he stepped back from the door and allowed him into the hotel room. The latch clicked behind him. </p><p>There was a desk and an armchair in the hotel room corners. Adam took the desk chair, swung it around, and sat in it backward. His arms hooked over the back and his leg jittered. He licked his lips and tried to pretend this was normal.</p><p>“Listen, man, I know what you came to say,” Adam began, hand swiping through his hair, now self-conscious about his rat’s nest. His voice drawled with sleep and his accent. “I just wanna say, I’m sorry, I’ve been an <em> ass </em> these past few weeks since we lost the tag belts– just, dealing with everything has been a lot. And I know I’ve been drinking too much, I’ve been trying to cut back. Gotta watch my weight and not act like a drunk <em> idiot </em>all the time. You’ve put up with too much shit from me– I’m sorry, for everything.”</p><p>His bit said Adam leaned back, the chair creaking underneath his shifting weight. It wasn’t everything but it was where he could start. There was not touching all that was underneath it. His irrevocable, complete, and total love for Kenny Omega that superseded any boundary or description. Something in Kenny was going to break, he was fracturing, falling apart in Adam’s trembling hands. No amount of superglue was going to put all the pieces back together again. Not when he may be the man who cracked him in the first place. (He let Matt, FTR, Chris, in his head). Adam was a drunk, anxious millennial cowboy, obviously way too in over his head. Who still wore the cowboy PJ’s his mom bought him for Christmas. Adam questioned his role as Kenny’s partner, his role in the elite, his role in AEW, or his ability to carry himself in a division as a top guy. He couldn’t question, refused to question, his role as Kenny’s friend.</p><p>No matter what, he’d be here for him.</p><p>Or at least, he’d try to.</p><p>“I’m just, I don’t know what it’s going to take, man– to prove myself. Year two, lost title shot. I don’t know what else I got in me.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>K. </strong>
</p><p>Kenny hadn’t thought that he would be waking Adam, and guilt gnaws at him for causing a disturbance— and for staring <em> dumbly </em> at Adam’s chest for what even <em> Kenny </em> would consider to be <em> too long </em> . From his chest to his <em>cowboy-themed </em>pajama pants, Kenny stares. From his blond curls to his wet lips, Kenny <em>stares</em>. At a loss for words, and he is, <em> for once</em>, appreciative of Adam’s oblivion. With the bounce of his leg, however, Kenny is able to perceive Adam’s anxiety, its <em> palpability </em> in the confines of the hotel room. Kenny is able to perceive Adam’s anxiety, how it intertwines <em> beautifully </em> and <em> grotesquely </em> with his own—  a cauldron of sweating hands and bouncing <em> cowboy pajama’d </em> legs. "I didn’t know you were asleep."</p><p>Eleven forty.</p><p><em> Listen, man, I know what you came to say</em>.</p><p>The edge of Kenny’s lower lip shivers, a dichotomy between <em> amusement </em> and <em> anxiety </em> in the twist of his lip. Adam does not know what Kenny has come to say, for Adam does not know the <em> contrariety </em> of Kenny’s heart, how it <em> demands </em> to be felt but <em> trembles </em> at the very idea of divulgence. Adam does not know what Kenny has come to say, for Adam does not know how afraid Kenny is, <em> desperately so</em>, of once again losing the one that he loves, loves so terribly that his heart <em> beats </em> for him, so terribly that it <em>hurts</em>, so terribly that he cannot even <em> say it </em> because words are not enough. Adam does not know what Kenny has come to say, for Kenny, <em> himself </em>, does not know what it is that he has come, at twenty minutes to midnight, to say.</p><p>
  <em> I’m sorry. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m proud of you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m in love with you. </em>
</p><p>While Kenny's heart beats hard, wild against his aching ribcage, Adam <em> apologizes, </em> and however sincere Adam’s apology is Kenny’s acknowledgment, "I appreciate it, Page," is agitated, quiet, and breathless. He hesitates, worrying his lower lip, before he sits, <em> slowly</em>, in the armchair adjacent from Adam. "But I didn’t come here to listen to another apology." The chair is, as to be anticipated, <em> uncomfortable</em>. He’d rather stand by the door —<em>to run, to escape</em>—  but standing while Adam sits would embody <em>intimidation</em>, so he resigns to fidgeting, scraping his shoes against the carpet, and grasping at the armrests in an anxiety that Adam will likely be <em> mercifully </em> unobservant of. Sometimes, though, Kenny wishes that Adam were not so unobservant. Sometimes, <em> though</em>, Kenny wishes that Adam <em> would </em> notice, that Adam wouldn’t ask but would simply <em>know</em>. If Adam were to ask, after all, Kenny would only lie through his teeth, because how is he <em> supposed </em> to admit that he’s not all right, that his life is, once again, collapsing around him and it’s all his fault, <em> like it always is</em>.</p><p>Sometimes, Kenny wishes that Adam would notice, that Adam would just <em>know.</em> Kenny tries not to acknowledge how <em>now is one of those times</em>.</p><p>Lounging in the armchair, legs splayed, he assumes the pretense of composure, of <em>poise</em>. "Look, you need to stop being so —  so <em>sorry </em>for yourself. " His words hypocritical, but Adam, <em> however far he falls</em>, will be able to save himself. <em> Kenny is too far gone</em>, once again too close to the sun and now, wing melted, unable to break his fall. Now, <em> he drowns</em>. "You’ve  …  made some mistakes, okay? I’ve <em> definitely </em> made some mistakes." <em> September</em>, how he’d almost <em> struck </em> Adam, how he <em> had </em> allowed Adam, <em> who’d reached for him</em>, to collapse to the canvas. His fingernails scratch into the material of the armrest, the leather creaking from the abrasion. "But you’re — you’re one of the best men I’ve…  <em> ever </em> known, really." He smiles, wistful in the incurve of his mouth; within moments, however, it fades. "And I get it. This time last year, I was on a <em> losing </em> streak, man, I wasn’t— " The Phoenix Splash, his face <em> colliding </em> with the wood of the canvas. "I don’t know, I just…  wasn’t doing so great, I guess. I don’t know." His voice breaks and falters. He’d lost to Moxley. <em> He’d failed Ibushi</em>. Even <em> before </em> he’d lost to Moxley, he’d begun his descent into mania, Matt requesting that his cameos be removed for how <em> wild </em> he’d been.</p><p>Nick had <em>exploited </em>his cameos, manic episodes aired for all to <em>laugh </em>at.</p><p>He still doesn’t know how he feels about that.</p><p><em> But Adam had rescued him</em>. Adam doesn’t know— or maybe he <em>does</em>, but he hadn’t ever said anything about it, about how he’d found the fragmented remains of Kenny Omega and had put him back together, piece by piece, with each smile, shared between only the two of them, with each word of encouragement whispered to him, at times with Adam’s breath heavy with liquor, in the backstage area. Kenny knows how <em> awful </em> it is of him, his <em>dependency</em>, how desperately he wishes for Adam to save him again, and again, and <em>again</em>. Maybe, Adam had become <em> tired </em> of the dependency, tired of <em>him </em>—<em>broken</em>, forever fracturing at the seams and only slaked if the one he loves has destroyed themselves from putting him back together again, and again, and <em>again</em>. Kenny had left before Adam could. It was only a matter of time, after all, before Adam abandoned him. Kenny had done the right thing. <em> Kenny had done the right thing</em>.</p><p><em> Yet here he is </em>, unable to stay away.</p><p>He doesn’t notice how his leg is bouncing, how his hands tremble even as his fingernails scratch into and wrest the leather. He takes a breath. He glances at the door. <em> Run, run, run</em>. "I don’t know —I don’t know what to say anymore, ‘cause you never listen to me. You sit there, and you act like you’re listening, but it’s just —it’s just the same shit, every time." He looks away from the door and, once again, at Adam, his eyes beautiful and soft and <em>sickening</em>, and Kenny wishes he hadn’t. "You say that you’re <em> ‘sorry,’  </em> but you don’t change. I know you really are sorry. I know you are, I <em> know </em> you are. <em> I know</em>." He breathes in, and he looks away, looks to the door. <em>Run, run, run, run</em>. He notices how badly his leg is shaking. He breathes out. "I don’t know. I don’t know what to say, Page. I really don’t."</p><p>He has to leave. He <em> has </em> to, or else he will destroy him.</p><p>彼はしたくありません。</p><p>"I’m just tired of this. I’m —  I’m tired of <em> everything</em>."</p><p>それは痛い。</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>A.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Adam used to have a favorite uncle. When he was a kid Uncle Matt was <em>the </em>coolest guy. During family gatherings, when things were too loud and the adults a little too rambunctious, Adam would retreat to the back porch. There Uncle Matt would be draped over the railing, feet crossed at the ankles in a characteristic way of his, stealing a cigarette he wouldn’t let his sisters see. Then, watching the sunset or the cows out in the pasture, doing cow stuff, they’d shoot the breeze. Talk about anything and everything, Uncle Matt just knew it <em> all. </em>How the world worked, why the sky was blue, and the solutions to all of Adam’s problems. Adam remembered his first cream soda sitting on those porch steps, poured in a tumbler glass with ice like it was something fancy. He remembered in his adolescence when that amber liquid turned alcoholic. Mom was cool about it, she’d rather Adam learn about drinking at home than elsewhere. Besides, Adam got good grades in school, he did his chores at home, got the horses in on time, and helped with the cattle, he graduated college at the tender age of twenty– a drink or two every now and then was no big deal. His virtues outweighed his vices.</p><p>Kenny sat opposite Adam and it looked like he was falling apart at the seams. Unraveling right before Adam’s eyes. The vibration of his knee, leg bouncing, toes jittering. His hands, a beautiful, strong construction of tendons and defined bones, twisted. Kenny looked all over the room, the ceiling, the bed, the corners, the closet, the legs of Adam’s chair. Lingered on his mouth and the lines of his chest. Not at him, never at him, never let him see the color of his eyes, only the scared whites. He imagined the deep ocean and its unexplored depths. He hadn’t seen that color since his first drink with FTR. </p><p>The family dinner that ripped the curtain back on Uncle Matt was like jerking off a band-aid. For years Adam heard the kitchen table talks at night, his mom on the phone with her sister or mother, discussing Matthew. What he had done this time. What they’re going to do about it. There had to be enough money, somewhere, to take care of Matt, he’s family, they <em>will </em>find the money. He was a centerpiece at every meal. A favored conversational topic. If there was nothing else to talk about– talk about Matt.  Looking back, Adam realized Matt was in-and-out of rehab for the better part of two decades. When Adam was nineteen, Matt staggered into Christmas, drunk and smashed. It was like puking on a nativity scene, so sacrilegious. Adam sat across the table from Matt that night as he slurred and ranted, nailed to his chair, mouth sealed shut. The cops got called, they found a bag of cocaine in his car. Matt is still invited to family dinners but he never comes. And nowadays, Adam is kinda glad for it. </p><p>Except, here he was again, nailed to his chair and mouth sealed shut. </p><p>Adam rubbed his hands, interlaced and intertwined his fingers, and then unwound his grip. He observed the way his nails reflected the warm hotel room light. A dryness, like chewing on cotton, parched his throat. Kenny said he wasn’t listening but that wasn’t true. Adam was <em> hanging </em> on his every word. Like a dying, desperate man, looking for streams in the desert, dangling on a prayer. A prayer that Kenny would just <em> fucking </em>look at him. A prayer that he had never had that first sip of alcohol as a teen. That Uncle Matt had told him that some poisons never pass through the body. That every drink, every mistake, every anxious thought, every failure, lingered in his veins and seeped into his bones. One day this toxin would reach his heart and calcify his arteries. If Adam didn’t wanna put up with Matt then why the hell would Kenny. He swallowed, jaw stiffening and chest tightened. He’d been gouged-out. Kenny had taken a knife to him and his blood was not red, but black sludge. That was in his heart: A piece of shit, filled with poison. Kenny saw right through him. </p><p>“I-I know, man,” Adam stuttered, he ducked his head. For a tender heartbeat he glanced-up but found no relief in soothing colors, so Adam retreated. “I’m– I’m sorry.” Because he didn’t know what else to say, even if Kenny was sick of the empty apologies. ‘Sorry’ doesn’t cut it. Excuses weren’t enough, anyone could make excuses. Anyone could make promises. Real men, followed through–</p><p>So, said his Uncle Matt. </p><p><em> You’re one of the best men I’ve ever known. </em> Of all the scathing indictments that Kenny hurled at him, and how they landed true, Adam clung to this one. It was the most painful, the most insulting, the most terrifying. Yet, it left him warm, his stomach filled with butterflies. Because it meant Kenny saw all the ways that Adam wasn’t living up to his ideal. He should be better. JR once told him he had all the tools, everything he needed, to be the best guy in the company. And in that familiar, familial, Southern slur, informed him that he had to get his head out of his ass. Adam stood at the summit of greatness, yet could climb no higher. Every time he made progress, he found himself kicked down, back to where he started– By Christ Jericho, by MJF, by FTR, by Kenny Fucking Omega. He has tried everything, given everything, and he was afraid to dig deeper for what he’d find. <em> Sabotaging the men he loves, his best friends, for a couple more weeks of a title run.  </em></p><p>“Yeah, I’ve put you and the Bucks through hell, I know,” Adam said, “And I get, not wanting to put up with me anymore. I get it, man, I do. I’ve been trying to make it on my own, but maybe, that’s what I really need to start doing now. I won’t ask you to hang with me. I won’t, you know, pester you or bother you. I’ll stay in my corner, get my shit sorted out but like–”</p><p>He paused, hand and fingers stretching midst gesture. Adam licked a stripe over his lips and then he looked up at Kenny. Adam adored him so much it hurt. Loved his ashen curls, and the stupid things he always does to his hair. That he never wore a coat even if it was freezing out. The thin stubble on his rounded jaw. He loved that Kenny Omega was a goofy guy who invited him to play <em> Mario Tennis </em>the first time they hung-out alone. He loved that Kenny always strove, fought, to be better, to get better, to sharpen his game. Loved watching Kenny in the ring and his agile swiftness– and hearing all the dumb shit he said. </p><p>
  <em> You! Can’t! Escape!  </em>
</p><p>And then usually the opponent ducked under the ropes because Kenny telegraphed his move. He always got it eventually, though. </p><p>Loved that about him. </p><p>“If you ever need anything, no matter, what,” Adam said, hand touching against his chest. He studied Kenny’s face like it was the last time he’d ever see it again. Because it may well be, but he’d have to be content to observe from afar– to accept the blessing of crumbs. “Just ask, man. I know you got that match with Mox coming-up and that you’ve had a hard time with him before.”</p><p>One, two, three, hour-long phone calls, discussing Moxley, the things Kenny did wrong, what he did right. The long confessions into the night of his fears, his anxiety, and Adam’s constant refrain, it was alright, he’ll get it. They were like fire and gasoline back then, just a year ago. It all felt so right like they just <em> clicked. </em>Even since their first match in Japan. Adam found that he could lean on Kenny and Kenny could lean right back. Somewhere in all that, something slipped, they were no longer in alignment. And Adam was pretty sure he knew who changed. </p><p>“But, you’re going to get him this time,” he nodded to himself. “I know you’re going to get him, you’re better than Mox, I can feel it. I mean, if <em> you </em> can’t beat him, what hope does any of the rest of us have? And– you’ll be the champion. <em> AEW World Champion, Kenny Omega </em> , sounds good, right?” Adam grinned, big and cheerful, hopefully comforting. Tried not to think on the reverse of it <em> AEW World Champion Hangman Adam Page. </em> If only he had hooked the leg. <em> “ </em>I don’t know what I’m going to do–”</p><p>What he’d always done, get-up, try again. He was the <em> Hangman, </em> the executioner and the executed, the condemned and the condemner. With blood on his hands and a job to do. Something had to change this time, though. <em> How in the sweet hell was he going to beat Kenny Fucking Omega? </em>  Something, something, about the definition of insanity. He didn’t know what– didn’t know where to start, and that’s what he was brainstorming in this hotel room. </p><p>Rewatching replays of that kiss on his phone. </p><p>“But maybe I’ll meet you up there again,” He trailed off, eyes darting down and to the side. He grinned, ever so slight, but then sighed. Adam began his thought, “Hey, out of curiosity, after the match at Full Gear, when you won did you– why did– You know what, forget it, man.”</p><p>He scratched at the back of his neck and shook his head.</p><p>“It’s not important.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>K. </strong>
</p><p><em>Kenny wishes that Adam’s words didn’t affect him</em><b>,</b> that his throat didn’t seize, that his lower lip didn’t tremble. The burn of imminent, <em> all too familiar </em> tears at his eyes, and Kenny is uncertain of <em>why</em>, of <em>what </em>it was that had caused him an emotion he could describe only as <em>agony</em>. Perhaps, it had been Adam’s promise of what Kenny perceives as abandonment and Kenny’s guilt for his hypocrisy. Perhaps, it had been Adam’s devotion, the promise of <em> if you ever need anything, no matter what, just ask</em>, and Kenny’s guilt for the fact that he cannot reciprocate. Perhaps, it had been Adam’s prophetization of Kenny becoming the new All Elite Wrestling Champion, how Adam had smiled at the notion, and Kenny’s <em> guilt </em> for the elation — the small, fragile smile ghosting his own lips upon noticing Adam’s, how handsome he always, <em> always </em> is but especially while smiling — the words had evoked, however ephemeral.</p><p><em> And I get not wanting to put up with me anymore </em>.</p><p>Perhaps, it had been Adam’s belief that Kenny has become tired of <em>him</em>.</p><p>Kenny wishes that Adam’s words didn’t affect him, that his throat didn’t seize, that his lower lip didn’t tremble —Kenny wishes that he could be able to <em> speak </em> without his voice, <em> whiny</em>, hesitating in its fragility. But he cannot speak without his voice hesitating, nor can he allow Adam to discern the falsetto, the <em>trembling</em>, of his voice, to become privy to the fact that he’s one glance of <em> green to blue </em> from crying. <em> But maybe I’ll meet you up there again, </em> and Kenny, in spite of himself, smiles. He wishes he could say the smile is sincere, wishes he could say that the very idea of Adam challenging him for the championship —for <em>his </em>championship— did not ignite <em> awfulness </em> within him, a wildfire seething within his heart. <b>“</b>Yeah.<b>” </b>And his voice is still.</p><p>
  <em> Over my dead fucking body. </em>
</p><p><em> Hey, out of curiosity, after the match at Full Gear, when you won, </em> and it is as though he were doused with ice water, as though the fire, once <em>fuming</em>, had been suffocated by a vacuum of <em>ignominy</em>.  Oh, <em> that</em>. He almost laughs. How wild, how <em> abrupt </em> his heart can be, once verging tears, now worrying at his lower lip in stifled <em>laughter</em>. Horrified, his cheekbones, once again, roseate, the leather of the armchair rasps, <em> irritatingly so, </em> as he fidgets. <em> It’s not important</em>, and thus, the compulsion to answer is no more; however, he thinks that he should, that he <em>owes </em>that. He thinks that he <em>should</em>, but how is he to answer, if he cannot speak the truth? How is he to answer, if it would only hurt to lie? If he cannot speak the truth, what is he to say? If lying <em>hurts</em>, what is he to say?</p><p>
  <em> Because I love you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Don’t you realize that? </em>
</p><p>He clears his throat. <b>“</b>You’re talking about, <em>uh</em>, how I kissed you?<b>”</b> He asks as if there were <em>anything else</em> to inquire about. <b>“</b>Well, it was —it was a really good match, wasn’t it? I was just impressed!<b>”</b> Kenny Omega certified <em>eccentric</em> who has kissed one of his closest friends, mouth to mouth, amidst a match<em>,</em> wholly believes that such an explanation will be enough and does not worry himself with increasing the believably. <b>(</b>How <em>could</em> such a lie be any more believable? Regardless of how he opts to explain it away, only the <em>truth</em> would be entirely acceptable.<b>)</b> <b>“</b>Would’ve kissed you after our match back in New Japan, if my head hadn’t been, you know, <em>gushing blood</em>.<b>”</b> Selfishly, Kenny hopes that Adam feels guilty if only so Adam feels <em>something</em> for him.</p><p>Green eyes, <em>doe eyes</em>, looking back at him, and guilt, once again, <em>gnaws</em> at Kenny, his heart aching painfully against his ribcage. He glances at the door. Less inclined to run away, but he knows that he should. He <em>knows</em> that he should before he <em>destroys</em> Adam. <b>(</b>He doesn’t want to hurt him.<b>)</b> <b>“</b>I’m not tired of you, you know,<b>”</b> is what he says instead, his voice abrupt but finally, <em>finally</em> not trembling, regardless of how wild his heart, <em>aching</em>, still is. <b>“</b>I’m tired of this —this <em>situation</em> that we’re in, and I’m tired that you won’t just—  just get your goddamn shit together and pull yourself out of this hole that you’re in, ‘cause I <em>know</em> you can.<b>”</b> He is, after all, the <em>hero</em>. <b>“</b>But I’m not tired of you. You’re my <em>friend</em>, Page, I could never be tired of you.<b>” </b><em>I could never be tired of you, I love you</em>. <b>“</b>Adam, I— <b>” </b>He could say it.</p><p>Twelve o’clock, twelve o’ one.</p><p><em> He could say it </em>.</p><p>He hesitates. He needs to leave. <em> He doesn’t want to hurt him</em>. <b>“</b> Can I stay here? <b>”</b> And yet, <em> here he tries to stay</em>. <b>“</b>It’s—  It’s <em>fine</em>, if not. It’s just…  late, you know? I thought I could just, <em> uh</em>, sleep on the couch, or s-something?<b>”</b> Not quite a question, but the hesitation in his voice, his anxiety, masquerades as an inquiring lilt. <b>“</b>I don’t know.<b>”</b> He needs to leave. He doesn’t want to hurt him, and if he stays, he <em>will.</em> <em>He doesn’t want to hurt him</em>. But Adam’s green eyes, <em> doe eyes</em>, and golden, sleep-ridden curls; but Adam’s smile and Southern drawl, but his cowboy pajama pants and the forgotten pajama shirt that <em>must </em>match — how <em>can </em> Kenny leave? But he needs to. <em> He needs to</em>. He laughs, <em> giggling </em> from his anxiety. <b>“</b>I should just— I should just <em> go </em> before I say something else that’s stupid.<b>”</b></p><p><em> I could never be tired of you, I love you</em>.</p><p><b>“</b>I’m just…  <em>lonely</em>, I guess.<b>”</b> <em>Too late</em>. <b>“</b>I want to be with you.<b>”</b></p><p> </p><p>
  <b>A.</b>
</p><p>The digital clock turned over to 12:00, the witching hour, the pinnacle of midnight, and lingered on those crimson numbers for sixty seconds. The longest damn minute of Adam’s life as those seconds dragged by, taking their sweet time. Adam fixated on Kenny’s mouth because he wasn’t looking him in the eye. Fascinated, by how his thin, pink lips formed and shaped each syllable. The slight stammer or tremble that interrupted his words. Adam’s nails scratched at the back of his chair. He clung to the hardwood like it was the mast of a storm-torn ship. Kenny’s mouth shaped, the openness of the ‘ah’ sound, followed by the closed ‘dam.’ <em> Adam, I– </em> the corners of his mouth pulled back, lingering on the final sound which resonated in the room.  It was heart-wrenching, Adam wanted Kenny to say his name again. Didn’t care what came after. So, long as it was <em> his </em> name at the tip of <em> his </em> tongue. Wanted him to say it in a way that was just for Adam. Adam’s mind raced, trying to get ahead of those sixty seconds. Then, the digital clock hauled its ass over the finish line of 12:01 and Kenny uttered the most simple question: <em> Can I stay? </em> Adam gaped, eyes widened and brow lifted in actual surprise. Okay, not <em>his </em>guess for how this night would go but that’s fine, he can improvise. He is a <em> great </em>improviser. </p><p>Well, the answer to the question is obvious: Of fucking course Kenny can stay. </p><p>“Yeah, of course,” Adam blurted out. </p><p>In the aftermath of <em> twelve o’ one </em> , Adam pushed to his feet. He began to swing his leg over the back of the chair but then he paused, thigh lifted hip-high. Balanced like an awkward and stupid, fat flamingo. Adam sat back down. His head had not caught up with his heart. In fact, Adam’s brain was still in his skull. Meanwhile, his heart was lodged somewhere in his throat. All of this complicated by the fact that Adam’s head was probably stuck in his ass if JR were to be believed. He was sitting there and feeling like an idiot. Like, he had just missed something super obvious and it was doing a fly-by while flipping him the bird. Kenny said a lot of things. <em> I’m tired of you. I’m not tired of you. You’re my friend. I want to be with you.  </em></p><p>Adam once heard in a statistics class that the human brain can only evaluate the two-dimensions of variables at a time. The X and the Y-axis, that’s it, once a third, or fourth dimension is added, the complexity overloads the monkey circuits. Well, Kenny was introducing the fifth dimension, maybe a sixth. Kenny’s nervousness, his appearance at this late hour, his words, his harshness, and yet care, the dead silence of the past month– it was going to leave Adam spinning for days. At least, they were still friends, Adam clung to that as a validated fact. He chose to take Kenny at face-value. The man wasn’t a liar, Adam had never considered him duplicitous or deceitful. Kenny liked figurines and Anime too much, sometimes he had anxiety or was self-conscious. He loved to play to the crowd. This wasn’t like MJF-levels of mind games. Sure, Adam thought they were done-for after their humiliating defeat by FTR, but he had been wrong before. If Kenny said they were cool, they were cool. </p><p>And of course, Kenny played off the kiss. It was obvious, it was simple, there was nothing there. Looking at him, Adam realized that Kenny had no idea that Adam had been obsessing over every detail of that kiss for the past few days. All while trying to untangle the complex web of motivations. Analyzing Kenny’s behavior for any hint of mutuality of his feelings. Which was crazy, in retrospect, Adam had seen Kenny kiss Cody and Matt on the<em> lips </em> . In the language of Kenny, a peck on the forehead was <em> like a firm clap on the shoulder </em>. Kenny was weird, sometimes he sang his own theme song or spent ungodly amounts of money on Street Fighter cosplays. He did odd things sometimes and Adam had hit Kenny in the head a half-dozen times in the match. It was nothing, it meant nothing. So, the kiss was nothing but silliness, Adam was just crazy but– They were still friends. Kenny still cared about him and wanted him to do better. Just sick of the excuses. It was cool, they were cool. </p><p>The clock whispered to Adam like an ominous warning: 12:02, Adam hadn’t said anything in almost a minute. </p><p>“Yeah, yeah, sure man,” Adam continued. He lifted his hand to soothe Kenny, “If you need a place to stay, I’m not going to kick you out. I’d never do that, we’re– you said it yourself, we’re friends. And, you know, Kenny about the other stuff–”</p><p>Adam rubbed the tips of his fingers together, he licked his lips. Then he scratched at his head as if that would inspire coherent thoughts. Finally, he began, careful of each word. </p><p>“I-I kinda, figured that’s what it was about, the kiss,” Adam said. Finally, putting to words what they were discussing. “I had just forgotten about it until I played the tape back. You know how the post-match haze is. So, I was just kinda wondering, is all. It’s cool, it’s cool, if you’re cool, I’m cool– And, I’m glad we’re still friends, I’m glad you came to talk to me. That we’re still… cool. I like hanging with you Kenny, I like being your friend. I appreciate that you’ve put up with me this long, I’m grateful. Even if we’re done in the tag-team scene, I still want to be with you too.”</p><p>Adam nodded to himself as he smoothed his hand over his mouth. Yeah, that was right, that was good, it was honest. His eyes closed, soaking it all in. Okay, so the last sentence was a bit much, a little sappy, but it was honest. It was cool, they were cool, things were <em> fine. </em> Adam relaxed in the chair, tension unwinding from his shoulders and back. His leg calmed, stilled, as he draped over the chair, sighing with relief and contentment. It was late, his head hurt, and his feelings had been rubbed raw. Adam yawned, big and long. He blinked the blur out of his eyes. He glanced at the clock, 12:04. His disheveled bed called to him. </p><p>Past midnight, God knows where Kenny was staying in the city or how long it’d take to get there. Or even, if he had a place to stay. Adam wouldn’t kick him out. Not in a long shot, not in a million years. Not in ten million years. It worked out in his head. He surveyed the options: the stupid, ugly armchair; the lumpy, scratchy couch that was <em> easily </em> a foot too short to fit a man Kenny’s size; and the bed. Adam hadn’t booked this hotel room expecting a guest. But mom always said that if you had one extra, you just made room at the table. So, there was only one viable option: the bed. Just share the bed, it's easiest, it’s comfiest, it makes the most sense. Anything else made Adam feel like an asshole. And of course, he was a lovesick fool who <em> rejoiced </em>at this fact. Because all morons wanna share a bed with their crush. C’mon, opportunities like this only strike once in a lifetime. </p><p>“And, yeah, man,” Adam said, he stood again with conviction this time. He suppressed another yawn behind his hand. “Like not to be a total killjoy but it’s way past my bedtime, and listen, I’m not, I’m not gonna kick you out, or put you on the couch–” He glanced at the sorry piece of furniture– “I don’t think you’ll even fit and we both know you have a bad back, already. I mean, you are kinda old. So, if, if you’re cool with it, we can share the bed. I mean, we’ve done weirder things. Like, I can put on a shirt if you want, but it should be fine.”</p><p>He recalled plane rides where Kenny passed-out on his shoulder and five minutes later Adam joined him, their heads stacked. Sometimes they held hands on the bumpy landings, even if it was a joke. Strips of Japanese countryside and highway passed in blurs, as Adam leaned against Kenny’s side in the bus seat. Kenny’s head in Adam’s lap as he played his DS or scrolled through his phone. Standing with his arm hooked around Kenny’s neck– or quick hugs pats on the back. It was not uncommon for any one member of the Bullet Club or the Elite to randomly tackle the other one. They were weird, but they were not touch starved or repressed. Adam could not count how many times he’d been pat on the ass by his various stablemates. Sharing a bed wasn’t a big deal, in the scope of it all. Totally, not a big deal, do not make this a big deal. </p><p>“Just so you know though, if I kick you, or something, you can’t say I didn’t warn you,” Adam joked. </p><p>While Kenny sorted himself out, Adam worked at straightening the linens. He tucked the sheet back in and pulled the comforter back to the center. Adam even rearranged the pillows so they looked neat. His mother would be proud of him. Adam sat down on the edge of the bed. He picked up his phone and glanced at the screen. There were no new messages or notifications. He pretended that he did have something to occupy himself, by closing all the excess apps and then re-opening them. The bed dipped when Kenny sat down on the opposite side. The phone went onto airplane mode and returned to the nightstand. Adam could feel his pulse in his toes– do not make a big deal out of this, do not be weird. It was just Kenny, except, it was just <em> Kenny. </em>Luckily, the bed was big enough they’d never have to even touch. </p><p>Adam pulled back the covers on his side and slid underneath the sheet. His tense and sore muscles relaxed as he sank into the mattress. Adam yawned again, checking on Kenny out of the corner of his eye. That was a mistake because it only made his thoughts race. Adam laid down and turned over onto his side. </p><p>“Good night," he muttered, before he reached up and turned out the light. </p><p>Adam laid at the far edge of the bed, hoping to give Kenny as much space as he needed. His eyes stayed open, peering into the darkness, as the air conditioning murmured and the traffic roared outside. His chest twisted and throbbed. Kenny’s presence on the bed was unforgettable. His soft breath, the shifts, and dips of the springs each time he adjusted position. Adam sighed, forcing his eyes closed, and tried to focus on sleep. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>K.</b>
</p><p>Adam allows him to stay for the night, and Kenny is mollified and anxious at once: the appeasement of Adam not rejecting him, yet the anxiety of Adam <em>accepting</em> him, of <em>staying</em> when he <em>knows</em> that he shouldn’t. It would be easier if Adam were to reject him if Adam were to call him the <em>coward</em> that he is and kick him out, but he doesn’t; Adam, with his proclamation of <em>“I want to be with you too,”</em> welcomes him with open arms, and Kenny cannot ignore how his stomach twists with <em>anger</em> at how frantic his heart is, how he is almost <em>giddy</em>, boyish excitement, at the thought of sharing a bed with the man he loves so awfully, with the man he knows that he will <em>ruin. </em>(<em>He should be ashamed of himself.</em>) Giddy, but he does pout, if only momentarily, at the mention of his age, how<em> “kinda old”</em> he is. “Yeah, and you’re the one who pulled his <em>groin</em> when you were lacing up your boots. That’s, uh, <em>way</em> more of an old man thing than having a bad back, <em>Piz</em>.” Two could, and two <em>would</em> play at that game. He smiles, both impish and innocent, and lifts his hands placatingly. “Okay, <em>okay</em>, don’t kick me out for that. You started it.”</p><p>“<em>Anyway,</em>” he says, voice drawling, before Adam is able to strike back against his teasing, “is it alright if I take my, uh, pants off? I have underwear on. <em>Duh</em>. And I’m<em> too old </em>to sleep in jeans.” With such a <em>persuasive</em> appeal, Adam allows him to take off his jeans, and it is, unfortunately, the opportunity for Kenny to perform quite possibly the most <em>awkward</em> striptease: if Kenny catching and <em>stumbling</em> in his jeans after he toes off his shoes doesn’t ruin the (<em>nonexistent</em>) moment, then the reveal of his <em>X-Men underwear </em>most <em>certainly</em> ruins the moment. “I’ll leave my shirt on. Unless you want me to take it off too?” Now is certainly not the time to tease, <em>especially not since he’s half-hoping that Adam will fall for it, will pull him by the hair into a kiss and </em>— “I’m kidding. I’d feel kinda weird being that, uh, <em>naked</em>, anyway.” As if Adam would fall for it. <em>As if Adam would fall for</em> <em>him</em>. Suddenly, Kenny is mortified, <em>nauseated</em> by his perversity. From one emotion to the next, to the next, <em>to the next</em> —he knows who he is, and it certainly is not <em>Kenny Omega</em>. “I’m just gonna go, <em>uh</em>, wash my face real quick.” He waves one of his hands dismissively. “Don’t wait up.”</p><p>After four minutes <em> too long </em> of washing his face and staring into the mirror as if the man that stared back were not him, Kenny exits the bathroom, leaving the light on but pulling the door <em> almost </em> closed but not quite, an eke of light gleaming from the gap. He shuffles toward his designated side of the bed, smiling almost <em> timidly </em> as he does. Unfortunately, Adam <em> had </em> waited for him. “Hope that’s okay,” he says, <em> awkward </em> , regarding the light. “Don’t like it when it’s too dark.” Not afraid of the dark, nor has he ever been, but the <em>nothingness</em>, where his thoughts are unceasing, where sleep hallucinations grip him and his perception of reality twists into all that he fears —the ugliness of spiders against his skin, the horror of the voices of those he loves vilifying him incomprehensibly. He sits at the edge of the bed and remembers how he’d once had night terrors, how he’d woken to Matt’s consternation, and his own voice rasping from how he’d cried horribly in his sleep. He needs to not do that again.</p><p>He <em> really </em> needs to not do that again.</p><p>The blankets susurrate with Adam’s shifting, and Kenny almost doesn’t perceive Adam’s voice through the susurration, through his thoughts that cannot be laid to rest regardless of how desperately he tries to. “Yeah, <em> yeah </em> . Good night.” The light is turned off, and Kenny seeks refuge in the blankets, curling into the cotton that he pulls, <em> childishly </em> , to his chin as if the act of doing so would, <em> somehow </em> , oust his fears and anxieties —  the <em>monster underneath the bed </em> that scratches at the bed frame and demands to be acknowledged. Kenny seeks refuge in the blankets, and he clings to the solace of the air condition whirring, of the breaths and sighs of his bedfellow. Once back to back, Kenny shifts to lie onto his right side, to look at the muscles of Adam’s back, his spine and shoulder blades, and how <em> tense </em> he is. He <em> almost </em> reaches toward him, <em> almost </em> soothes the straining muscles of his shoulders, but his hand flinches away, as if touching Adam —so holy, burning bright—  would scorch him. The digital clock reads twelve forty six, and he closes his eyes, <em> too tightly</em>, and tries to sleep.</p><p><em> And he’s falling</em>. He’d walked off of the edge of the building, and he’s falling. He hadn’t wanted to. He hadn’t wanted to, but his body, his movements, his <em> thoughts </em> are no longer his own. <em> They haven’t been for a while. </em> He’d walked off of the edge of the building, and <em>he’s falling</em>. He’s falling, and he’s reaching out wildly, <em> agonizingly </em> as he reaches for and grabs fistfuls of nothing, nothing, <em> nothing</em>. He cannot be saved. He’d walked off of the edge of the building. <em> It’s his fault </em> . But he still reaches out, desperate to be saved from a situation he’d thrust himself into. But who is there to save him? He has no one. <em> He has no one</em>. He’s falling, and he’s nauseated, and he doesn’t want to die but he knows that he cannot be saved. <em> He’s too far gone</em>. He’d walked off of the edge of the building, and all he can do now is prepare for the impact.</p><p>Heart wild, sweat at his hairline, <em> trembling</em>, he wakes before he hits the ground. Heart wild, sweat at his hairline, trembling and inclined to <em> kick </em> from bed in his hysteria, but he’s pressed against Adam, against his chest and into the hollow of his throat, as Adam <em> embraces </em> him, fingertips twisted loosely into Kenny’s hair, even while he sleeps. Kenny breathes hard and ragged against Adam’s throat, lips parted and eyes wide as his heart stutters almost <em> painfully </em> at his ribcage. His head against Adam’s shoulder as he’d slept through a train ride, his hand grasping for Adam’s in the fear of <em> dying alone </em> as airplanes veered with turbulence — it had never been <em> lovers </em> intertwined in the bedsheets, breath to breath, sweaty skin to sweaty skin. <em> It had never been like this</em>. As close as they are, Kenny is able to feel Adam’s breathing, is able to <em> feel </em> Adam’s heartbeat, slow and steady, reverberate within his own chest. <em> It’s too much</em>. He wishes it could always be like this. His lower lip trembles. <em> It’s too much</em>. He wishes it could always be like this.</p><p>He coughs and splutters and he can’t remember the last time that he cried but he knows that he’ll remember this moment, in the arms of the man he loves so awfully and <em>sobbing</em> because he’s <em>too</em> <em>fucked up</em> to say it: “<em>I love you, I love you, I love you. Please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me.</em>” He clings desperately to Adam, pressing his mouth to Adam’s shoulder to subdue how <em>terribly</em> he’s whimpering, breathing rough and trembling against Adam’s tacky-with-sweat skin. He’s too old to be crying like this, but his back and shoulders are crawling with spiders, and he wishes that Adam would wake up and comfort him but he’d rather <em>die</em> than have Adam see him cry like this, and he’s <em>so fucked up</em>, from the plague in his bones to the depths of his horrible soul, that he can’t<em> stand</em> it.</p><p>Adam sighs in his sleep.</p><p>He wishes it could always be like this.</p><p><em> He knows that it can’t be</em>.</p><p>Kenny kisses Adam’s jawline and escapes from his grasp, from sweaty skin to sweaty skin, from the symphony of heartbeats — <em>slow, fast, slow, fast</em>. He scratches hard at one of his shoulders and retrieves his jeans from where they lay abandoned against the armrest of the sofa. He glances at Adam, tousled hair so <em> golden </em> even in the dark of the early morning, and his heartaches. The digital clock reads six fifty-one, <em> six fifty-two</em>. He dresses into his jeans and combs his hand, self consciously, through his own hair, fingertips snagging against and breaking the tangles. He thinks to wake Adam, to tell him that he’s leaving, and thank him for allowing him to stay the night. But he can’t. <em> He can’t</em>. He needs to leave. <em> He needs to leave</em>. He dries his face with the collar of his shirt and walks toward the door. Hand grasping the door handle, <em> he hesitates</em>. He needs to leave. It’ll be <em> easier </em>  if he leaves now. But he doesn’t <em> want </em> to. He doesn't <em> want </em> to leave. But what he wants to do doesn’t matter. What he wants to do has never mattered. He didn’t want to leave Ibushi, but he <em> had </em> to. He didn’t want to join the Bullet Club, but he <em> had </em> to.</p><p>He doesn’t want to leave Adam, but he has to.<br/><br/>He looks back at the hotel room, and although he avoids looking at Adam, he does, however, notice Adam’s <em>backpack</em>, laid awkwardly, half unzipped, on top of the desk. He bites his lower lip, considering. <em>Maybe, he could take a keepsake</em>. He walks toward the backpack, dragging his fingertips against the zipper. It wouldn’t be <em>stealing </em>— he’ll <em>probably </em>end up giving it back. With a bit of hesitation, he shoves his hand in and retrieves a shirt from the compartment: short-sleeved, creased from having been worn, and black in color. He lifts the shirt to his face and breathes in <em>embarrassingly </em>deep, mouth and nose in the fabric that <em>decidedly </em>still holds the scent, salty with sweat yet forest-like in its evergreen, almost <em>herbal </em>notes, of Adam. Adam shifts in bed and Kenny flinches hard, shirt white-knuckled against his chest, before scurrying toward the door. He needs to leave. <em>He needs to leave</em>.</p><p>And finally, with one of Adam’s shirts <em> awkwardly </em> in hand, he pulls the door handle. He walks into the corridor, and he closes the door, quietly, behind him   —   the door to the hotel room, the door to he and <em> Hangman’s </em> relationship, the future that may have once laid before them but now no longer. <em> Hangman.</em> He had been a noose at Kenny’s neck, stifling him. He had been, hadn’t he? <em> But now more than ever, Kenny finds himself unable to breathe</em>. He presses the elevator’s call button too hard and thank <em> God </em> the elevator is unoccupied when it arrives. He pulls his cellphone from his pocket and selects a familiar number from his contacts, one he’s been able to recite for twenty-seven years now. He presses the button for the first floor and childishly relays the phone number as his cell phone rings. <em> Four three one, four three one, four three one</em>.</p><p>“Kenny. What’s up?”</p><p>“Can I come over?” Kenny’s voice trembles. <em> Don’s voice isn’t as comforting as he’d thought it would be</em>. But his childhood loneliness cannot compare to the anguish he feels now, bone-deep and scarring his very soul, as he thinks of Adam, Adam, <em> Adam,</em> and how he’d <em> ruined </em> him. “I just want to talk.”</p><p>“Yeah, of course.” As if he would be refused. “Is everything all right?”</p><p>Kenny wishes he weren’t so quick to cry, <em> but it’s not like Don will notice </em>.   </p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” he manages. “Never been better.”</p><p><em> It’s too much </em>.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>A.</b>
</p><p>In Adam’s dreams, Kenny kissed him. A fluttering, brush of lips against the underside of his jaw. A hand nudged his arm and Adam grunted. He rolled onto his side. At the edges of his consciousness, he heard: bedsprings creaking, footsteps on the carpet, and a belt buckle fastening. Sunlight spilled through his cracked eyelids and his vision blurred. Adam blinked grit from his eyes. His hot breath tickled his mustache and beard. He lifted his hand, unraveling from the sheets, and rubbed at his chin. Stubble pricked his palm, damn, he needed to shave. Warm, the bed was warm, the mattress, the blankets. Adam felt-out at his side, reaching, reaching, all the way to the edge. He blinked and registered disheveled but flat sheets, the up-turned corner of the blanket. The day broke into the darkroom and the clock read 6:53, the edge of the Winter dawn. The bathroom door, cracked, with the light still on. The hotel room door opened, the latch turned, and a mop of curly hair slipped-out. Adam sat-up, elbow digging into the mattress, his hand threading through his hair to shove it from his eyes. The door closed. </p><p>“Kenny?” He murmured, to an empty room. </p><p>His heart was in his throat, clawing out of his windpipe. Adam swallowed the organ to return it to his chest cavity and he stared at the closed door. He waited for it to open again like a <em> dog </em> . The door stood resolute like a cheap wood version of the monolith from <em> 2001: A Space Odyssey. </em> Adam shifted and the blankets bound like a rope around his calves. He spilled out of the bed and crumpled to the floor, all elbows and knees. Limbs struck against the carpet, the nightstand –whacked his heel real good on the edge of the bed frame– as he struggled to free himself. Adam pressed to his feet, stumbling, through his brain addled sleep fog. For a second, he looked down at the empty bed. A pulsating pain formed beneath his brow, his nose was stuffy, and he had to pee. Adam grumbled to himself and fumbled his way to the door. He struggled with the handle until his muscle memory dredged-up the files necessary to <em> work this complex mechanism. </em>Adam spilled-out into the hall, the door left to hang open an inch or two in his careless rush. </p><p>The hotel had invested in a bland, white, and peach speckled carpet. Adam’s bare toes sank into the rough and abysmal, low thread count flooring. The ceiling lights burned bright overhead, yellow and harsh. Adam turned a slow circle. His room was the third from the end of the hall and Kenny didn’t linger by the window, to watch the soft glow arise from the Eastern skyline. He padded down the hall, hand-hooked in the waistband of his sleep pants. At the hall intersection, he paused, not a single Kenny insight.  Adam breathed, shoulders sagging down his back and lips pressed thin. The elevators didn’t move, the staircase was quiet. Seconds past as Adam stood there, looking, but not finding anything. A door unlatched and a voice muttered something incomprehensible. Adam pivoted, looking down the adjacent corridor. A mom and her two little kids spilled out of their room. They carried luggage bags and confused looks about the half-naked, disheveled man, wearing cowboy sleep pants in the middle of the walkway. Adam lifted his hand in an attempted greeting that was not returned. He managed the weakest smile before he marched his dumb ass back to his room. </p><p>Somewhere he wouldn’t be judged for the Bucking Bronco Cowboy PJs that his brilliant Mom got him for Christmas. </p><p>Once back in the privacy of his hotel room, Adam looked over the empty, unmade bed, the couch without the pants Kenny left on the armrest last night and the total absence of the owner of those pants. After a dramatic, soul aching sigh, Adam attended to his physical needs. Brushed his teeth, used the bathroom, and blew his nose. He turned off the bathroom light and closed the door behind him. Adam pushed open the curtain and light spilled into the room, warm, budding sunlight spread over the walls. Then, he sat back down on the bed, not the side he slept on. His legs straightened as he turned and laid down, heels crossed on top of the blankets. Adam laid his hands over his stomach and interlaced his fingers. </p><p>Adam turned his cheek into the pillow and like a total weirdo, breathed-in deep. The linens smelled like soap– a different brand than Adam kept in his shower. The Eau du Kenny, that had filled his nostrils for the better part of the night. When Adam laid his hand at his side, he could feel that the heat of Kenny’s body lingered. Those two facts alone convinced Adam that last night wasn’t a dream or hallucination. It happened, Kenny arrived at his door last night and they had talked, in an honest true way. The conversation Adam had been craving for almost two months. Kenny asked to stay the night, they shared a bed, and–</p><p>Stretched-out in bed, back to Kenny, Adam had not slept. His thoughts were incessant. Twisted, turned, and bound into absurd, tangled knots. Adam had been sick to his stomach and all his extra energy went to not jumping out of bed to puke in the bathroom. Must’ve been all those butterflies he swallowed. The air conditioning turned off, the curtains wavered, and then Kenny murmured. A sound so soft, Adam almost asked Kenny to repeat himself. Then, whispers and mumbles, that couldn’t be mistaken for snoring. Pained noises, like a whipped and beaten dog, getting another licking. Adam had turned over in bed, careful, slow, and quiet. Kenny already faced him. For several moments Adam laid there, breath caught in his throat. The light spilling out from the cracked bathroom door was a mercy as it let Adam see Kenny’s closed eyes and his blonde eyelashes batted against his cheeks. He was like an angel, disarrayed curls, haloed by light. Yet, Kenny’s features contorted in some agony that furrowed his brow and tightened his jaw. Kenny grunted and twisted beneath the covers. He burrowed into the sheets, curling in on himself, knees almost to his chest. Then he whimpered, a single clear world:</p><p>“<em>Adam.” </em></p><p>Like he had been summoned, Adam reached for Kenny. He cupped Kenny’s cheek and smoothed his thumb over Kenny’s brow, cheekbones. Kenny slept on, unresponsive but murmuring and muttering still. Adam wedged his elbow into the mattress and wiggled closer. Bit-by-bit, Kenny calmed, that crease in his forehead smoothed out a little. Adam whispered in return, gaze-softened, and heart full of sap, “I’m here.”</p><p>Well, that’s it, call Adam a maple syrup tree.</p><p>Then, Kenny grabbed Adam, clutched his elbow, and scrabbled for him with surprising strength for someone asleep. Adam wondered if in Kenny’s dream he was a pillow or one of those stuffed animals he still slept with. He was here in bed, with Kenny Fucking Omega, clinging to him, and Adam wasn’t prepared to say no. Adam opened his arms as Kenny rolled and curled against him. Until his head rested on Adam’s shoulder and his hand rested on Adam’s chest. By instinct, like he’d done it a million times, Adam closed Kenny into an embrace. He wrapped his arms around Kenny’s shoulders and waist, then eased Kenny’s head beneath his chin. Kenny tangled his legs with Adam’s, calf hooked over Adam’s knee. </p><p>Then, the tension drained from Kenny, all the taut muscles slacked and released. His breath evened and softened. In a couple of minutes, Kenny slept at ease. To his shock, Adam’s heart wasn’t about to pound out of his chest. He sighed, the anxiety unraveling from his own body as Kenny stilled. Kenny <em> clung </em> to him like he’d rather die than be pried away. It was the closest they’d been since the Summer. Adam laid there and stared into the dark abyss. He played his fingers through Kenny’s hair and savored the moment. The warmth of Kenny pressed into his side, his breath, the strength of his back, and yet the tenderness of his touch. The smell of fresh linen and citrus, Kenny’s favored shampoo. Adam remembered wandering the shopping aisles on a late-night snack run and watching Kenny sniff each product with a discerning palate before settling on a bottle of cheap <em> Lemon Explosion. </em> It was natural, totally honest for Adam to press a kiss to the top of Kenny’s head. </p><p>And if Adam’s memory served, they fell asleep like that. Kenny, passed-out peacefully in Adam’s arms like he belonged there. That this was good and honest, and the best thing Adam’d ever done. All the other crap didn’t matter. Kenny was wedged against his side and sleeping sound. For that night Adam served a purpose. He was useful and needed. His job was easy: To hold Kenny tight and help him sleep well. This was right, this was good, it was the <em>best. </em> It was a habit Adam could get into. The ritual of preparing for bed together. Brushing teeth side-by-side, elbows jostling. Sliding beneath the covers and bidding goodnight. Then, Kenny would sidle up to him, complain about how it was so <em> cold, </em>and put his freezing toes on Adam’s legs. Then, Adam would get to hold Kenny. Maybe, Adam would lay on his side and wrap his arm around Kenny, getting to bury his nose in Kenny’s neck. Or, he could fall asleep on Kenny’s stomach, arms slung around his midsection. </p><p>Except now, he laid in bed, alone, in the morning. Kenny had left. Kenny had come and then left. Didn’t wake-up Adam. Didn’t say goodbye. Maybe, as executive vice-president, Kenny had somewhere important to be. Maybe he didn’t want to be a disturbance. None of that soothed Adam’s overwhelming <em> need </em>to wake-up with Kenny tucked in his arms and to kiss his cheeks to waken him. For the kiss to evolve, hands tangled in each others hair, and–</p><p>Oh, that was an extremely dangerous line of thinking. </p><p>That was not how Adam should be thinking about his best friend or Kenny Fucking Omega. </p><p>Adam pushed to his feet, with a sudden vigor and like lightning had shot down his spine. Adam paced the room and then without warning kicked over the desk chair. The piece of furniture toppled to the floor and Adam didn’t feel better. Until last night, Kenny had barely spoken to him in two months. Two months, two months of absolute, complete radio silence. A half-dozen ignored texts, dropped phone calls, not even a God damned <em> email. </em> Commentating on the matches they were supposed to have <em> together, </em> that Adam won solo, then leaving without a word of ‘congrats.’ Expunging their name from the ranks. Avoiding Adam backstage, Kenny was like a whisper in the wind. Kenny never told Adam that they were 100% <em> done </em> as a tag-team, he just dropped Adam like a sack of shit that didn’t even deserve an explanation. Adam was always seeing Kenny’s <em> backside </em> these days as he slipped out of a room or turned away<em>. </em> And as nice as Kenny’s <em> backside </em> was, Adam was sick of seeing Kenny’s ass. Entering a tournament and picking a mother fucking <em> fight, </em>was the only way Adam could get Kenny’s attention nowadays. Get Kenny to look Adam in the eye. Then act all smug about Adam not accepting the handshake as if he hadn’t been on read for the past. Two. Fucking. Months. </p><p>Kenny and Matt both knew that Adam <em>never </em>accepted handshakes before or during matches. Been kicked in the balls too many times to do that. His supposed friends offering their hand was an insult. Their smug offense at being refused — as if to say ‘look how standoffish and rude the Hangman is’— was mocking. </p><p>Two months. </p><p>September 5th to November 7th, pay-per-view to pay-per-view, Adam was left to survive on crumbs when he’d been feasting for almost a year. Kenny didn’t even bother to tell Adam that he was going solo again. Adam had to learn that from <em> Excalibur. </em> </p><p>And yeah, maybe Adam deserved it. He fucked-up big time at <em>All Out. </em>He righted the chair and sat in it. His hands threaded through his hair, slid down his chin. It was all good. It was all fine. </p><p>
  <em> Cool, we're cool.  </em>
</p><p>Bullshit. </p><p>
  <em> I’m not tired of you, Page.  </em>
</p><p> <em> Bullshit.  </em></p><p>
  <em> I want to be with you. </em>
</p><p>
  <b>Bullshit. </b>
</p><p>All that yet, Kenny left this morning without a goodbye or an explanation. Why did he come at all? Just to rub salt in the wounds of Adam’s festering defeat and failure? To give Adam a spark of hope and then stamp it out? Maybe, Adam deserves this, no, he definitely deserved this. The lies were a little much, but in the end, Adam had this coming. He didn’t even deserve the truth: <em> Fuck off, I hate you, never speak to me again.  </em></p><p>Yeah, Adam apologized but Kenny was right, it wasn’t enough. Sorry, wasn’t <em>ever </em>going to be enough.  It was never going to be enough. <em> He </em>was <em>never </em>going to be enough. Kenny and Adam had a thing, a special bond, and Adam had broken it so badly, it was completely irreparable.  He screwed the Bucks because he was jealous and weak. He screwed Kenny because he was a moron with his head up his ass. A lovesick fool who couldn’t see the forest for the trees, even if he ran into a trunk. Adam Page whooped Wardlow’s ass so he could make Kenny look him in the eyes. Yet, the belt was a nice bonus– anything to finally step out of the Elite’s shadow after being shoved back into the darkness. Beat Kenny, beat Mox, grab the title and shove it in Matt and Nick’s face, finally earning Kenny’s approval.</p><p>Holy shit, he was such an idiot. </p><p>In what universe could Adam beat Kenny Fucking Omega?</p><p>
  <em> Him.  </em>
</p><p>In what universe could Adam beat <em> John Fucking Moxley.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Him. </em>
</p><p>Adam stood, walked across the room, and despite his fury, had the good sense, and courtesy to his neighbors, to pick-up a pillow, shove it in his face and scream into <em> that. </em>His nails dug into the cover. Then he dropped it back on the bed. Adam picked up his phone off the nightstand. Opened the messaging app. Looked at his DM with Kenny– </p><p>
  <em> “did you want to say something?” </em>
</p><p>Because for a brief second, in the middle of a production meeting Adam had noticed Kenny staring at him. Staring intently, with softened gaze and longing expression. In fact, Adam had noticed in the reflection of a window. And for a moment he had watched the mirrored Kenny gaze at him. When Adam looked back, though, Kenny looked away. If he had something to say, something on his mind, Adam wanted Kenny to have space to fucking say it. </p><p>
  <em> “No” </em>
</p><p>And well, guess he didn’t. </p><p>Guess he didn’t. </p><p>Adam was already the biggest ass on the planet, let's not make himself an even larger one. </p><p>With shaking hands, Adam changed into jeans and a t-shirt. He zipped his jacket over his shoulders and shoved his wallet in his back pocket. He left the hotel room and turned onto the streets. It was five o’clock somewhere and the corner store sold alcohol. </p><p>Which was great, he needed a fucking beer. </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>